I conjure you, by my love of the earth, That nothing is two for all that it’s worth. If it’s here, it belongs, If it doesn’t it’s not. If it’s dead it was done (and was once someone) If it lives it has something Yet This isn’t vapid cause Nothing is nothing (I’m John Chabot-Malcomcheck). If there’s no division then falsehood is true. If not you’d not speak of it, now wouldn’t you? Shout out your lies and be like the moon, Cover the earth with the winds that you blew Write them all down, like I’m doing now? Carve river lines on the face of an owl. If plastic’s synthetic, then why is it here? I’m sober enough to start drinking beer. Call me Tyr, call me over, and call me again and You haven’t called “me” over a glen beside Glenn. God carved us a circle-shaped rock with no rounded parts The smell of the pie crust inside became quiet farts The plaque listing donors for that university’s Missing the stones that uphold it— Now don’t you see? Or blind ye do. Whichever helps You love your poo.
Feels like it needs a raucous musical number and a dance scene. Fun read.